Pillow talk
by Sheitan
Summary: A fluffy oneshot in which Thrall gets a bit snarky and Jaina retaliates.


A/N - not belong to me.

Another oneshot without any redeeming value. This one is pure fluff and sillyness. And I do apologize, the make-up sex will be in the next (and last) one-shot.

* * *

Pillow talk – with the orcish Warchief. It was just lewd enough and ridiculous enough to have been one of Zacharias' drunken innuendos. The memory of her dead friend briefly quelled her mirth, but then she recalled the manner of his death, and she pushed the memory away with a growl.

If someone had mentioned pillow talk and orcs and her in the same sentence … Her head would likely have exploded from the sheer improbability of said event, before she slapped the speaker for impropriety. Such a ... princess ... she had been.

Jaina flicked a lock of coarse black hair from her shoulder, and sighed. Actually, there was not a pillow in sight, only piles of fur and heaps of more fur, and a quilt proudly displaying a white wolf-head on an ice-blue field. Nope, not a pillow to be seen.

What _was_ very evidently in sight, comfortably resting not two inches from her, black hair spilling all over her, sticking to her sweaty skin, and mixing with her own tangled golden tresses, was a green-skinned, heavily muscled and tusked Warchief, dressed to match her. Which meant stark naked. Idly, she picked at a long hair that had been tickling her nose.

"Jaina, I can bind my hair again if it annoys you," said Warchief offered pleasantly.

"No, no," she said, waving a hand. "I was just… thinking."

"Is it getting easier?" he asked seriously.

"Easier…?" Jaina started, and then bolted upright. "Oh, you… you!" she stuttered, and was met with an infuriating grin. "Stick to one thing at a time, Sorceress."

Now really wishing for a pillow, Jaina's hands roamed the bed furiously. Fingers closing around the first and best thing she could get her hands on, she whacked the Warchief on the head. She got a hit and a half in, before he lazily lifted an arm and draped it over her shoulder. In the next instance, Jaina found herself in the process of being smothered by a bear-skin, fur crawling into her nostrils and mouth.

"Yield," she mumbled, flailing an arm. "Yield!" The pressure was alleviated, and she sat up warily.

"That," she said flatly, "was unfair."

"Did you really expect me to lie here and take a beating with a pair of panties?"

Jaina blinked, and then looked at what she still held in her hand. A pair of white silken panties, embroidered with lavender runes.

"Eh, yes?" She threw the panties over her shoulder, to join the rest of her clothes somewhere in the rumpled skins.

"Come again, Miss Proudmoore," he said softly, baring his tusks in an expression she had learned to beware, in the same manner one bewares coming between a dwarf and his ale. Or a druid and a wounded kitty. Except that, _she_ was the ale and the kitty. Now, that made for an interesting picture.

She sidled to the side, just in time to avoid a big hand lunging for her wrist. Grinning, she stuck out her tongue at him, and scooted another foot away. And found herself sitting in air.

With a high-octave yelp, Jaina fell backwards off the bed. A split second later, her left buttock connected painfully with the hard wooden floor, followed by the back of her head.

Letting out a string of oaths that would have any paladin either run for cover or put her up for exorcism, Jaina simply sprawled on the floor, too stunned to start pulling herself back together.

"You know, if you would care to come back to bed I might have something interesting to show you," came a dry voice from somewhere above her.

"Ha. Ha. Ha." Jaina slowly sat up, rubbing the back of her head. She was sure she already felt a lump forming.

"And I'm sure I've seen it all before."

The only answer was a deep, throaty laughter, the sound of one who is completely at ease, and Jaina had to smile, despite the numbness in her buttock. Smile, and subtly move her hands.

There was a moment of quiet, then a sharp outcry in what she was sure was very indecent orcish, but it was drowned out by a very loud _splash –_ and she quickly held up her hands to avert the spray of droplets that fell on her like rain. Cold rain. She had been very specific about the water's temperature – or lack of.

Stunned silence. Jaina began to crawl back to her feet.

Then a very controlled, tightly wound voice rose from the bed.

"This means war."

* * *

The next day, the majordomo of Grommash Hold was very puzzled by a list in the Warchief's own, impeccable writing, requesting the immediate purchase of a dozen pillows of the finest eiderdown.


End file.
